Disarmament
by Commander Zucchini
Summary: Doctor Bruce Banner has devised countless methods for remaining calm in stressful situations. And Agent Natasha Romanoff disarms each and every one of them. Brutasha one and two and three-shots, or whatever strikes my fancy. Now up: 'Ballet.' They kind of have this routine.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Just a brief idea in drabble-ish form, I don't know of anything will come out of this. I write when the muse strikes, or when I'm inspired by a review or a random thought. This was somewhat random, somewhat Tumblr sparked, but who knows what may come. If you like it, let me know, I might add, but I just felt like getting this one out. Sorry it's short, I'm not really skilled at writing over 500 words at a time :P_

 **Disarmament**

They kind of have this routine.

He greets, she smirks. He talks, she flirts. He blushes, she smiles.

And then he walks away.

He visits her in the gym, he trains a little bit with her. He focuses on maintaining a level heart rate while he dodges her fists. She stops by the lab on occasion, stays a while to be assassin-made-lab-assistant.

But when she has him pinned on the ground, her torso against his, each feeling the other breathe heavily and the heavy thudding of hearts, or when he reaches behind her in the lab to grab something and has his forearm brushing against her waist - he panics.

Doctor Bruce Banner has devised countless methods for remaining calm in stressful situations.

And Agent Natasha Romanoff disarms each and every one of them.

Yoga, martial arts, meditation, opera, breathing exercises, everything, _everything_ goes out the window when Natasha enters the room.

Which is partially why he does it.

He's a scientist, it's in his nature to experiment, to test boundaries, to change variables and see what might happen.

So he purposefully will put himself in these situations where he finds it difficult to stay calm.

But he never in a million years imagined that she would feel the same way.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: As per request, here is Natasha's side. Not sure how much I like this one. What do you think? (PS This should be read while listening to Hercules' "I Won't Say I'm in Love." Just for kicks and giggles.)_

* * *

It catches her quite by surprise.

When she realizes what's happening, she's shocked to discover that she can't remember when it began, and even more so to find that though it's not too late to stop it, she doesn't _want_ to.

Natalia Alianova Romanova has fallen.

Metaphorically, of course.

And though she won't use the term love, and has her doubts that she ever will, this feeling, this feeble little emotion has her staring down and smiling at her phone where she has just received a text from one insufferably dorkish doctor.

And when Clint looks at her with a raised eyebrow, suddenly it hits her like Mjolnir.

"Nat?" Clint says slowly with a growing smirk.

If she weren't incredibly accomplished at subterfuge and espionage, she might be in trouble. But being the good spy that she is, she simply morphs her previously half-dazed smile into a purse of the lips and throws in a raised eyebrow. Before she can even open her mouth though, Clint has read her.

"No, no, don't even try it, honey. I know that look and I know that smile and no amount of lies and eyebrows can convince me otherwise."

She growls. Why did she ever think that a friendship with Clint Barton was a good idea?


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe this was a bad idea.

This is the seventh time in three weeks that they've used the gym for "Code Green Protocol Regulation," or, seeing-how-many-hits-Bruce-can-take-before-his-eyes-start-to-glow. She takes it easy on him, but he's getting better. Learning how to fight back without losing control.

That's not working so well for him right now, though. The losing control part. And his eyes aren't even green.

No, his current position is far more terrifying.

He's breathing heavily. He doesn't need a monitor anymore to tell him what his heart rate is; he knows it's right at 175. He can feel it thudding frantically in his chest - the same chest that currently has a red haired assassin pressed against it.

He needs to close his eyes, he needs to breathe deeply, he needs to get his heart rate down, but there are some incredibly beautiful and dangerously intense eyes boring into his own right now and he's not sure if he wants to break the connection or not. He wonders if maybe his heart will just stop on its own.

He can feel her breath as it mixes with his. It's coming in short, shallow pants. One of her hands is clutching his behind his back, pinning it down, and he's starting to feel like hundreds of little thumb tacks are piercing him, but at the same time he can feel her hand clench his just a fraction more.

Her eyes remain fixed on his. He's resisting the urge to look down at her lips, but he subconsciously bites down just a little on his own. Her eyes involuntarily flick down to catch the movement and immediately he regrets it as she looks back up, eyes locking once more.

He can't move.

He doesn't want to.

Because he knows there are only two options.

One will result in pain. The other will result in more pain.

So he chooses the less painful option.

He breaks eye contact.


	4. Chapter 4

_An alternate take on the last chapter._

 **Bad Idea 2.0**

Maybe this was a bad idea.

This is the seventh time in three weeks that they've used the gym for "Code Green Protocol Regulation," or, seeing-how-many-hits-Bruce-can-take-before-his-eyes-start-to-glow. She takes it easy on him, but he's getting better. Learning how to fight back without losing control.

That's not working so well for him right now, though. The losing control part. And his eyes aren't even green.

No, his current position is far more terrifying.

He's breathing heavily. He doesn't need a monitor anymore to tell him what his heart rate is; he knows it's right at 175. He can feel it thudding frantically in his chest - the same chest that currently has a red haired assassin pressed against it.

He needs to close his eyes, he needs to breathe deeply, he needs to get his heart rate down, but there are some incredibly beautiful and dangerously intense eyes boring into his own right now and he's not sure if he wants to break the connection or not. He wonders if maybe his heart will just stop on its own.

He can feel her breath as it mixes with his. It's coming in short, shallow pants. One of her hands is clutching his behind his back, pinning it down, and he's starting to feel like hundreds of little thumb tacks are piercing him, but at the same time he can feel her hand clench his just a fraction more.

Her eyes remain fixed on his. He's resisting the urge to look down at her lips, but he subconsciously bites down just a little on his own. Her eyes involuntarily flick down to catch the movement and immediately he regrets it as she looks back up, eyes locking once more.

He can't move.

He doesn't want to.

Because he knows there are only two options.

One will result in pain. The other will result in more pain.

He knows that she wants him to make the first move.

It's not that she's shy. He knows she's not. But this, this thing that they've had going on for so many weeks, months now…

He's always run away. He's always backed out.

She'll take one step closer to him, and he's already taken two steps back. He's so good at that. Backing off before she can advance.

He knows it's going to hurt. When he has to end it, when she has to leave him, when they realize just how wrong this is. But for now, he wants just one try. One shot at seeing what might happen, what could be, how they would pretend that they can be normal.

His heart rate isn't going down any.

But if he's right, neither is hers.

And he's pretty sure he's right.

He doesn't even close his eyes, just lifts his head to cross the fraction of an inch that's between them and presses his lips to hers.

She responds immediately, freeing his trapped hand to bring both of her hands to his face.

"Pardon my intrusion, but I think you should like to know that Mr. Rogers is approximately forty seven seconds away from the gym," JARVIS sounds as awkwardly apologetic as an AI can be.

She's on her feet before he can even clear his throat.

She's smirking at him when Steve enters.


	5. Chapter 5

_Following in the vein of **Bad Idea 1.0**. In other words, the one where Bruce doesn't kiss Natasha. Warning, somehow I managed to be both humorous and angsty at the same time. Btw, thank you so much to those who reviewed! My goodness I was so flattered! I think this may be kind of a series of one-shots or connected-ish stories or something along those lines. If you have an idea, let me know :)_

 _._

 **Confrontations**

.

Steve Rogers enters the gym and he feels like he just walked into incredibly dangerous territory. It's in the air.

It's quiet, for one.

He soon sees the reason why when he walks in a little further.

Natasha and Bruce are doing what looks like the stare down of the century. As soon as he comes within view, however, both pairs of eyes fix on him.

Awkward.

Natasha could instantly vaporize a Chitauri fleet with her eyes right now. Bruce looks at Steve with all the hope of an abandoned puppy about to be rescued.

Hmmm…save the puppy or save his own life?

But Steve has never been one to let the underdog get bullied. And though he knows he might incite The Wrath of Romanoff, he draws a breath and takes the plunge.

He gets on the treadmill.

.

The moment that Bruce walks out, Steve hops off and looks at Natasha. She's steadily avoiding his gaze. So, he takes drastic measures. "Romanoff."

As expected, he automatically gets his insides chilled when her eyes snap to meet his.

He somehow manages to keep from gulping. "What was that about?"

Did her eye just twitch? "Just a misunderstanding."

"About?" Steve can feel his intestines being slowly pulled out as her eyes stay fixed on him. His stomach. His kidney. His liver—

"If you want to know, ask Banner."

.

It's later that evening that Steve can finally get Bruce alone. "Hey," he says as he slides next to him at the kitchen countertop.

Bruce is slowly poking around his Thai leftovers. He looks up at Steve and manages a not-quite-smile. "Hi."

"So, about earlier today…," Steve begins.

Bruce drops his fork onto his plate and starts to stand up, muttering something about not being hungry and having a lot of work to do. Steve didn't almost bid his internal organs farewell to Romanoff just to have it end like this, though. He places a strong hand on Bruce's shoulder and forces him back down.

"Alright, let's get down to the chase. Something's happening between you and Romanoff, and she wouldn't talk about it. So if you don't talk either, I'm asking JARVIS," Steve threatens.

Bruce's eyes widen almost comically at that. "I think that would be considered an extreme breach of privacy," he manages to get out.

"So, you kissed?" Steve pushes. He's pulling a Natasha now. Spy-psychology. Spycology. Hey, that could be a legit thing, Steve feels so proud of himself for thinking of it.

"No! No, we didn't, that's why-," but all of a sudden, he stops, realizing what he just revealed. He facepalms. "That's not fair," he mumbles.

"So, she wanted to kiss you and you didn't do it," Steve thinks he's definitely got a degree in both that and Applied Spy-ences now.

Bruce looks like he's going to just die from the embarrassment and awkwardness.

"Is that it?" Steve hedges, a little gentler now.

Bruce sighs. Resigned, he gives the barest of nods.

"Look, Bruce, I know I'm not exactly used to today's way of doing things, but I think I'm qualified as basically the world's leading authority on waiting too long. You like her. Which is obvious."

"Really?" Bruce is positively mortified.

"Yeah, pretty much," Steve chuckles. "But it's also pretty obvious that she likes you, too."

The doctor sighs, shaking his head. "She doesn't. She can't."

"Pretty sure she does, Doc."

"No. She's just being Natasha," he argues.

"You calling her a flirt?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean," Bruce groans and facepalms again. "Whatever. Anyway, even if she did like me, which she doesn't, I can't. We can't. There's no way it can work. I'm dangerous."

"Uh, so is she," Steve thinks fondly of his entrails.

"When she is, she's in full control of her actions. When I am, I break, destroy and kill and the drop of a hat. The Other Guy doesn't _do_ relationships. And I can't put someone in that kind of danger, regardless of how I feel or how she feels. Steve, thanks, I really appreciate that you want to help, but you just can't. Nothing can," Bruce's voice comes out as almost a whisper at the end. He stands abruptly, not even taking his plate, just walking briskly away.

He walks out.

Steve doesn't try to stop him.

Guess the double major didn't come with any classes in helping-your-rage-monster-friend-stop-being-so-insecure-and-stupid-and-afraid-and-just-ask-the-girl-out.

.

When Bruce exits the kitchen, he's startled to find Natasha standing by the door, back against the wall, eyes wide and staring forward.

He wants to say something, isn't sure if he should apologize or say 'there you have it,' or just keep walking. He knows she wants him to know that she heard him. She could easily have slipped away, easily have hidden, easily have pretended that she was just passing by.

She meets his eyes.

He keeps on walking.


	6. Chapter 6

_Takes place after Confrontation._

 _._

 **No More Games**

.

She avoids him after that.

Three weeks solid, the only contact he ever has with her, the only times he ever sees her, are when they have a mission.

Which is once.

Three weeks.

He doesn't know if she's using JARVIS to warn her when he's getting close, or if she just jumps into the vents when he enters the room, or if she's even in the building at all.

She's good at her job, he'll give her that. And to be honest, though he misses seeing her, talking to her, training with her, working with her, watching classics with her, sitting with her late at night when neither can sleep, he has to admit that if she weren't avoiding him, he'd be avoiding her.

But the fact that she's the one doing it makes him want to find her.

He tells himself to stop. When he starts thinking about her, when he starts looking in a room to see if she's there (when he already knows she won't be), when he listens to the others talking to hear if they say anything at all about her. They mention her occasionally, and he finds that she'd been on a SHIELD mission at some point, though he doesn't know when she left or got back or if she's even back yet.

He misses her.

.

( _before_ )

Steve hasn't tried to talk to him since. He'll smile at him or go out of his way to try and be helpful or friendly, but as far as that conversation, Steve hasn't brought it up once.

Eight a.m., Steve enters the Tower after his morning jog. Just as he walks in, he sees someone about to walk out.

"Romanoff," he greets.

"Rogers," she responds in kind. She's got a duffel packed and a jacket on.

"Mission?" he asks.

"Classified," she answers.

He nods. "You ok?" He looks her in the eye.

She stares.

"I talked to Banner," he starts.

"I heard it," she says flatly.

"Oh." He's thrown a bit by that. She's waiting. He knows she's probably on a tight schedule, but he has to say something. "You're avoiding him."

"Yes."

"Why?"

She cocks her head. "He started this game. I'm done playing along." She shoulders her duffel, making a point. Time is short. And so is her penchant for personal conversations.

Steve nods again at that. Gives a small smile. "Then don't play."

She raises an eyebrow. And he knows that she didn't plan on playing, but she knows that isn't his point. _Don't wait too long. Don't make him suffer like this._

"Have a nice trip."


	7. Chapter 7

_._

 **Apologize**

.

Nightmares.

Again.

Sometimes it's past, shadows against the wall, yelling, crying, screaming. Hitting.

Sometimes it's present. Green. Throwing, chasing, killing. Hitting. Red.

Red hair covered in red blood.

But they always come.

He used to come down here with her, he remembers as he exits the elevator, walks down the hall to the public kitchen. They each have their own on their private floor, but somehow they always ended up at this one. Maybe it had something to do with common ground and shared food. He takes out a mug and thinks of the times they would just sit there, sometimes talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes silent. Just sitting and drinking tea, eating an ice cream cone, making a sandwich. He looks through the cabinets and selects a tea, puts a kettle on to boil. He thinks of his nightmare, shudders. Remembers how she would softly talk to him late those nights, tell him it was alright, they're friends now, she's not afraid. She should be, he knows, but she trusts him, _trusted_ him. They were learning so much more about the other, how to work on the field together, understanding.

And then he stopped it.

She pushed and he didn't push back, he just fell. Fell in on himself, couldn't take it. And he thinks, what if he was wrong? What if he can? But he can't, he knows that. But he regrets it. All of it. He regrets ever starting this, for playing with her like he was a cat and she was some toy, as if things could ever be that simple. She wasn't a toy, she wasn't a mouse, she wasn't a machine. She's a human, no matter what they tried to change her into. She still has feelings, they're just hidden better than the best of them. He regrets it.

He thinks back. But would he have stopped it?

And all of a sudden, Natasha's there next to him, pulling out an extra mug. Startled, he pulls the kettle to add more water.

She looks no different than she usually does, except for her eyes. They're not flirting, they're not secretive, they're not assessing, they're just…empty.

She looks at him.

She's not going to say anything, he can tell. She's waiting for him.

"How…uh, was your mission," Bruce says after a long moment.

She tilts her head at him, as though wondering if that's really what he wanted to say. He lowers his head. It wasn't. It really wasn't.

"Good," she says simply. It's just one word, but just her voice is enough to strike him. He keeps his head down as his heart skips a beat.

She walks to the fridge and pulls out some milk. Still avoiding looking at her, he pulls out a bowl and spoon for her as she goes through the cabinet for cereal.

The tinkling sound of Apple Jacks pouring into the bowl coincides with the kettle beginning to whistle. He pours the tea as she pours the milk.

She sits on top of the counter, ankles crossed, staring at him as she puts a spoonful in her mouth.

He looks at her feet, her bowl, the fridge, her hair, the tea he's holding…

"Bruce."

He looks at her eyes.

If Bruce were ever to see Natasha Romanoff cry, he imagines it would look something like this.

Calm. Collected. Quiet. Broken.

"It's ok, Bruce."

She must have seen the fear in his eyes, the pain he's in, the confusion he's feeling.

He puts the mug down.

"Natasha," he loves just saying her name, even when it hurts, "I'm sorry."

She smiles sadly at him.

.

They sit on the couch together, watching an old Western. She's already finished her tea, Bruce is still slowly sipping.

He's tired, and so is she.

He knows that despite the last few weeks, the fact that she's sitting here with him now, eyes slowly fluttering closed as cowboys ride past on screen is evidence enough that she still trusts him.

Still.

He hates himself for doing this, and he hates himself for what he's about to do, but he's been tortured this last three weeks, and by Thor's hammer if he has to go through it again, it might as well be worth it.

Wordlessly, he sets his mug on the coffee tables, he puts an arm around Natasha, and as her eyes blink open, he tugs her head to lay on his shoulder. She shifts slightly to press against his side, one hand resting lightly on his leg, before she closes her eyes again.

He rests his head on top of hers and drifts off with the scent of her hair in his dreams.


	8. Chapter 8

_(A/N: Thank you all for the reviews! OK, so this is one version, I think I'm going to have another version of this as well-but I'm posting the happy ending one first lol. Well. Kind of. Anyway, Avengers Tower floor plan in my mind involves the kitchen and living room being jointly connected to enable quick access to snacks while watching tv, which is most definitely a necessity Also, though each floor comes equipped with everything they need, sometimes the team members find themselves gravitating towards the common areas, just because they like to keep each other company. And take turns doing the dishes. And steal each others' food. And good things like that.)_

.

 **Think it Through**

.

He wakes up to an odd pressure on his chest. Soft. Warm.

And breathing.

He draws in a deep breath and opens his eyes.

Natasha.

He refrains from moving, but the thought crosses his mind that she's probably already awake now.

He isn't wrong.

But instead of drawing back, she burrows further into him, fitting her head in the crook of his neck and wrapping an arm around his middle. And he's a bit shocked because he never really figured that the renowned assassin would be a cuddler. After a moment, he rests his cheek on her head.

He tries to guess the time by gaging the light that's coming in through the Tower windows. He murmurs softly, "Someone might come in soon."

"So?" Her voice is low and sleepy, and there's something that's so beautiful about it that Bruce all of a sudden wishes he can wake up every morning to this. He holds her a little tighter and smiles softly into her hair.

.

He's woken up again by the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. He hears the fridge open and close and then the footsteps fade away again.

"Rogers," Natasha mumbles. "Always walks like a rhino in stilettos."

He chuckles softly at the image. He feels her exhale slowly and she doesn't move for a few moments. Finally, she draws back and stretches lithely before running a hand through her hair.

"Here," Bruce says and turns her face gently so her can tame a few unruly curls. Her eyes stare at him and he wonders in a brief panic if he's done something utterly wrong. No he hasn't, her eyes are telling him. Yes he most definitely has, his head is screaming.

He really should've been thinking all this through, he surmises as he rests his palm on her cheek. _Really_ should've been thinking this through, as her eyes drift shut and she presses a bit against his hand. But who thinks clearly in the morning?

Footsteps enter again and Bruce draws back sharply. Natasha's eyes fly open and her mouth purses in a way that Bruce can only classify as adorably terrifying before she says, " _Stilettos_ ," as though it's a dirty word and Bruce stifles a laugh.

Steve must have heard them, because now he's peeking over to the living room with a jug of milk in hand and he sees them on the couch, still just a bit close to each other.

He grins, saying, "Oh hey, Romanoff, welcome back. Morning Doctor Banner," before turning and rummaging in the fridge. "You guys want some breakfast?" He calls out.

"Yes," Natasha says quietly looking at Bruce's lips.

"Yes, please," Bruce says loudly enough for Steve to hear clearly and reddens. She smirks at him.

He looks away and runs a hand through his hair.

 _Really_ should've been thinking this through.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: An alternate take. The version where Bruce just can't seem to get over his dumb self._

.

 **Think It Through 2.0 (Angst Remix)**

.

He wakes up to an odd pressure on his chest. Soft. Warm.

And breathing.

Natasha.

He tenses on instinct, gingerly withdraws his arm that's resting lightly around her. She gives no indication that she's awake but he doubts that she's still asleep now.

(He isn't wrong.

But when did she ever let him off that easy?)

Rather than invoke her wrath, he sits a few minutes longer, hoping that she will soon stir and remove herself from…him. After ten minutes, fifteen minutes, then thirty, he's wondering if she's fallen back asleep or if she is purposely torturing him.

He clears his throat finally at forty seven minutes, unable to bear it any longer, hoping she gets his not so subtle hint.

Immediately a hand is at his throat and his arms are pinned painfully. A split second later, she realizes what is happening, and she gives a little quirk of a smile before standing and stretching.

Bruce falters for a few moments, still processing what just happened. "You…I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" and he trails off, one hand rubbing his throat gingerly, avoiding eye contact. He can feel her eyes on him, but he can't bring himself to look up.

She actually fell back asleep.

He just shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Um, thanks. For…for last night," he says but he isn't sure what he's saying thanks for. For showing her face after ignoring him for three weeks? For not stabbing him? The night as a whole? He's not sure, but she seems to get it. She gives a little half smile and her eyes look sharp as ever, but there's a sadness lurking in there, and he knows she shows it for his benefit.

 _This is your fault_.

But he can't bring himself to do anything about it, and he can't keep playing this stupid game with her, so he steels his nerves and opens his mouth and says,

"Don't," she interrupts him before he can start. Her eyes are now soft and gentle, her voice is even softer. "Think about this before you end it." She sits down next to him again, close.

"Natasha, please, you know that I-"

She cuts him off by melding her lips to his, softly pleading, begging him to shut up. He's frozen and he can't move, he wants to, oh he wants to, but he can't decide if he wants to move with her or away from her and she's making it impossibly difficult to think when she's coaxing his mouth open and slipping her tongue inside.

He gasps almost inaudibly but she feels it and she brings her hands up to his hair, his cheek, and it feels _amazing_ , and his hands clench around her wrists as he yanks them off.

His heart is racing and breaking and he can't find his voice so he just shakes his head and stands up, stumbling away from the couch and away from her.

"Please, Tasha, please," he begs.

"Save it," her voice is hard and icy and he lets that wash over him as he all but runs out.

.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: The inspiration from this stems mostly from The Gray Areas by KaydenceRei. This might seem just slightly ooc, but then again, I am operating under the assumption that Natasha Romanoff does in fact have a heart. Even if she doesn't know quite how it works. Let me know what you think. I have developed a terrible habit of interspersing angst with terrible jokes and oddly placed humor. I hope it doesn't murder the mood._

.

 **Nightmares**

.

There are those nights where she can't sleep.

Those are the nights that she wishes Clint was around to slip her couple pills in her drink when she goes to the restroom, or at the very least suffer through the night with her. Sometimes he still does, sometimes she'll call him up at three a.m. and when he answers sleepily (' _Nat_?') she just sighs in relief of hearing her friend's voice and he stays on the phone with her until she can say something or she can fall back asleep, and her heavy breathing tells him it's safe to hang up.

( _That's only happened once,_ she reminds him.)

They all had them. Perhaps Tony handled it the worst, but they all had to endure them. They all had their monsters.

Some just hid them better than others.

There are times where Natasha wants to tell Bruce he's not alone. ('Look,' she would say, ' _I've murdered more souls with my high heels than Stark has cars_. _And that's_ after _I joined SHIELD_.") But she never gets quite that far. Just assures him that he isn't the only one that suffers. She never mentions her bloody stilettos. (Or any other of the nightly plagues.) She's never been a good model. Well, role model, that is.

It's the nights where she wakes up shaking, trembling, a scream dying in her throat, when she runs to the toilet and dry heaves if nothing else. It's those nights that she will purposefully seek Bruce out amidst the darkness. He's rarely in his rooms at that time (being friends with Tony will cause certain alterations in routine), so she often finds him working in the lab, or winding down in the living room or lounge, or grabbing a late night snack.

Sometimes she doesn't say anything, just casually watches him from a distance and then walks away before he notices. She'll spend the rest of the night watching a show or training, just anything to keep her mind occupied. Other times, she'll stop in, sitting across the room to catch what he's in the middle of building, snitch some of his Pad Thai, or observe his taste in movies.

A lot of times, they talk.

She doesn't let him see how shaken up she is, how terrified of the Hulk she feels as she sits next to him at the counter, how she wants to throw up in the lab with Bruce and Tony when she remembers in vivid detail the face as he stalked slowly towards her for the finishing blow.

His hand closing over her.

Snapping her neck.

Crushing her.

Sometimes quickly.

Sometimes slowly.

Sometimes she relives the chase in torturous slow motion, with a busted ankle and leaded limbs to carry her in an inevitable chase. Like that one level in Crash Bandicoot that Clint made her play once, only with a lot more blood and yelling involved.

Bruce never puts it together.

Because she's so at ease when she finally sees him, because this is _Bruce Banner_ , the man that laughs softly when she throws sarcastic quips at Stark. This is the man that fled to India so he could lose himself in helping the sick and hurt and dying, doing anything and everything to make them better. This is the dorky physicist who runs a hand over his face in sheer awkwardness and embarrassment when she flirts with him and he finds himself with the worst come back lines in history.

 _This_ is Bruce. He couldn't hurt her if he tried.

.

Until one night, she wakes up from a nightmare about _him_ and it's not like she can go to the Other Guy for help.

Why do breaking hearts hurt more than breaking bones?


	11. Chapter 11

_Not really related to the last chapter. Just a little thought that was itching in my head. Not the greatest, but all the same._

 _._

 **Ballet**

.

They kind of have this routine.

It's like a dance, really. A performance, a show, all just for the two of them.

It starts with a stretch. Warm up the muscles, get the blood flowing. A little comment here and there, a little jab or flirt to ease him up just a bit. She'll get him to relax his clenched jaw when he's nervous or agitated, works him into developing a nice flush in his cheeks.

Then come the steps. Slow at first, easing into it. Arms moving fluidly, gently. Lithe, smooth movements of the legs, softly putting one foot in front of the other. A light touch on his arm, a bump of the shoulders, a small chuckle at his jokes. He's getting the hang of it slowly, his blush a little less fierce, his brow a little less furrowed. He smiles at her now when she enters the room. Progress.

And then there's a leap. A run and a jump, gliding through the air. A moment of pure abandon that can leave you with an intense feeling of regret or incredible exhilaration. They've got a handful of these, but the best one yet is the lullaby. She wants to try to get through to the big guy, to attempt to calm him down when they're done with a mission. And he lets her. It is easily one of the stupidest and greatest decisions ever. She's got a few bruises to prove it, but that's what real dancing is all about anyway. You have to hurt sometimes to get it just right.

After is the spin. A little twist, changing perspectives. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. It's hard to perfect. It might leave them back at square one, wondering what in the world they were thinking, but it can also bring them closer together.

Finally, the bow. Show's over, energy is spent and breathing is coming fast. An acknowledgement of the audience, thanking them for their time and support. For, them, it's each other, and they smile and say goodbye and part ways until the next time. Dancing should never be easy, never boring, and for them, this routine is never monotonous and always a little taxing. But the effort was worth it.

And they start again.


End file.
